Lynn was blogging about her Grandma today, which was odd, because I was thinking about mine.
It was knitting that did it. I learned to knit when I was a teenager, and my main time to do it was in the car on long journeys. However this meant being seated next to my Grandma: trapped, like a caged animal in a zoo, unable to escape her critical gaze.
She would watch for a while. I would know she was watching. I would knit defensively, trying to wedge myself into the car door. I knew what was coming, and it always did.
"You don't knit t'gain way." (This is Yorkshire dialect for "Your knitting style is a very slow and laborious one". 'Gain' is from the Old Norse, 'gegn', apparently, and it's not something she made up at all. Though Mr Coffee and I were convinced that she did make dialect words up, and as she was older and more Yorkshire than any of us we couldn't contradict her. One day I'll tell you all about Dick's hatband, and how queer it was, and no-one will understand what I'm going on about.)
Knitting again after a 20 year break means that, God rest her soul, I don't have to listen to her complaining about how slow I am. And I think I do okay.
Certainly the Littlest Latte was happy cuddling up to her new hot water bottle cover, knitted with the yarn that Mr Coffee brought back from the market but forbade me to make into anything that would be on show because it was such a bright red.
I may not be super-speedy - but I'm a whole project down. And yes, for you aficionados, that IS moss stitch, and I am officially a genius.